Ha. The scene bursts to life, a million silver lights, a million miles of fire, burning brightly in its luminance of red and yellow and orange. The flames flicker, spreading quickly, a harsh wind pushing the consuming destroyer outwards, ever outwards in this cognitive expanse. The air ripples from the heat, the clear tinge in the darkened sky, the anguish and the torment and the pain. Oh, the pain. The pain of the memories, the pain of not knowing, the pain of never truly understanding. Somewhere deep in this blazing mess, there was once order. But now, something is missing. Much has been missing for a long time. Ha ha. The orbs are alight like everything else here, their silky mass becoming a torrent of quicksilver, liquid mercury ebbing and flowing, but in an alien manner trying to reform itself, to recreate the perfect orbs that are its regular existence. Somehow there needs to be an order, somehow everything here must make a manner of sense. Not real sense, not conventional sense, but a manner of it. If he could just figure it out, if he could just break free of the pain. Oh, the pain. The Jackrabbit is back in his cell. The luxury of rubber padding is lost to dull concrete, his window is no longer present, making this confinement dark and damp. He is cuffed, a steel rod through them so that he can barely even move his wrists on the end of his muscled arms. He is missing his T-shirt, revealing the silver necklaces he has always worn, and he sits only in his usual plaid longshorts. His blonde hair is long, unwashed, matted to his skull, and his facial hair is equally overgrown and unattended. His sunshades lay, broken, in the corner of these small confines. A noise escapes his chapped lips. Ha ha ha. Slowly, this broken man lets his steady gaze move to stare at the camera, peering a hole into it. He is forlorn, slipped back to the resigned and withdrawn state from which he had a brief reprieve at Uprising. His antics with Explicit Content, his triumph with Talon, all this is but a memory to him now that he is returned to the sanctuary that he is constantly told seeks to cure him of an ailment he entirely fails to see. Something, however, is missing here. THE JACKRABBIT: �They took it.� He looks down at his waist, his bare waist, void of the one thing he cherishes the most. Deep down, perhaps, he should have expected no less. Of course they would take it. The ice cream and televisions and friendly chats were gone, even the mirror he was so often observed through is no longer present; he was not supposed to be happy here. Only his laughing could really soothe him. THE JACKRABBIT: �Ha ha ha ha! They took it, they took it, they took it! Of course they did, they took away The Jackrabbit�s lovely Tag Team title belt! I�m sure they�re... looking after it, though... right, �Rabbit Fans? We defended it well, didn�t we? Tal and me, we fighted and fighted, and Tal was so tired from beating up poor Harvey Warning, but we kept going, didn�t we?. Haaaaa! Old Sully wasn�t gonna get the bester of Fusion, no sir-ee! No no! Oh my, Aphydoodle and Icey tried their best with that move, all fancy it was, and poor Sprite, he got his willy wonka busted up nice, but no... no... oh no, not us! Not us, Sully! Ha haaa! We�re still Champs, right Tal? They can�t... the nice doctor, he can�t take that away, can he? And Stevie... Stevieo... he might... maybe he�d try... but I�d cry and cry and maybe, just maybe he�d change his mind. Maybe, just maybe he�d think... �you know, Jackrabbit and Talon, Fusion, they really really worked hard to keep these belts... these Tag Team Champeenoships of the World... they beat three other teams...�that�s twenty-seven other people... that�s forty-six arms, forty-six legs, and twenty-nine eyes, don�tychya know!? Maybe he figures, �you know what, they beat the World Champeeno, the former World Champeeno, they beat their own stable-buddies, and got retributionism for the Sprite screwjob in HSW...� Haha! Maybe they�ll figure that is enough, haha! Maybe, for the love of all that is Hannah Barbara, just maybe they�ll finally realise that Fusion are bringing, yes bringing back respect and prestigiousness to the Tag Team titles in En-El-Dub. Surely they�ll realise? That is what we�re doing, and maybe Sully doesn�t see it, and maybe Sully doesn�t appreciate it, but we�ll do it. That�s what we�re here for, Tal told me so. Stevieo and the good doctor can�t take that... oh no, they can�t take that away from me. Aaaaahhahahahaahaaaahaaaaaa!� The Jackrabbit, through his often-times unintelligible ranting, has failed to notice the metal grate on his cell door slide open, or the dark eye staring through the hole at him in his vulnerable position on the cold concrete. As the captive falls onto his back and a fit of sheer hysterics, the grate slides shut again, but the camera follows through the permitting steel, watching the figure on the other side of the door, clad as always in his suit and his yellow tie and the baseball cap angled oddly on his head. Stevie Sol folds his arms, taking in what he has just seen, before looking down at the gold object cradled in his hands. The NLW Tag Team Championship belt. Stevie Sol gives a resigned sigh, turning to his counterpart in the investigations of the pro wrestler, one Doctor Libor Radnik. Radnik, still unshrugged of his white overcoat, has a glint in his eye that is new to his usual calm manner. STEVIE SOL: �I�m getting the impression you�re enjoying what you�re seeing here, Doctor?� DR. RADNIK: �Enjoying is not the right word, I think. But the results are... yes, proving quite intriguing. He is a difficult one...� STEVIE SOL: �But you�re going to crack him, right?� DR. RADNIK: �Cracking isn�t the right word, either. You do know we have got... how do you see... jurisdiction to stop..-� STEVIE SOL: {cutting him off} � ...stop Talon getting involved, yes I heard.� DR. RADNIK: �You are well informed, Mr. Sol.� STEVIE SOL: �I have to be, Doctor. Is... this entirely necessary?� Stevie Sol regards the wrestling championship belt in his hand. Dr. Radnik looks at it only briefly and gives a small laugh. DR. RADNIK: �Mr. Sol, we are in later stages of the investigation now. You know this, no? We cannot allow him anything that may cause him to resist our methods, any� how do you say�� STEVIE SOL: �Reasons to go on fighting, Doctor?� The doctor gives a dry laugh at this suggestion, but does not show any signs of arguing against it. Stevie Sol furrows his brow, absently readjusting the cap on his head. STEVIE SOL: �So I guess we�re coming to the end now, then? Have you found out what we need from him, yet?� DR. RADNIK: �Well, not as such�. He is putting up a� resistance. A very difficult subject indeed. Perhaps his inability to know or understand what we seek is making him very hard to get into� and certain crucial points seem to be missing from his recollection�� STEVIE SOL: �So that�s a �no� then, huh?� DR. RADNIK: �In answer to your question� this comes to an end only when it needs to.� Stevie Sol nods understandingly; he knows the doctor�s determination. Loosening his tie a little, he sighs, peering again to the locked door before them. Radnik smiles wryly, moving the heavy bolts in their sliders. DR. RADNIK: �Let us commence.� The steel door dissolves, its metal surface bubbling and hissing before fading entirely into the air, leaving only a faint blue trace like a carbon copy, the same being true for the doctor and his aide, a blue stain of shadow where once they stood. The camera shows the moon in the sky, a darkened world of hidden cloud, an atmosphere streaked with silver aura, a dream-like reverie in the mind of a broken man. The building, ever present, is below, looming high over a forgotten world below. This building is the only scene, the only place of any importance in this world, where so much happened and so much was lost. The stairs were winding, the rooms to apartment after apartment always locked, irrelevant to the climb that would be made by two intoxicated companions. The roof would be reached, an improbable destination but to the two of absent minds. On this roof, the two men are seen, recognisable through a half-decade of memories as Saul and Jay, the youthful equivalent to NLW�s reigning Tag Team Champions. The camera spins, somewhere this is laughter, faint though enough to be non-existent. Windowpanes below reflect a dark light onto the scene above them, their sheets no longer portals to anything but elapsed slumbers. On the roof, however, is a fight. The two men bicker and banter, inconsequentially but for the end result. Women are mentioned amongst the flurry of drunken insults, past battles made fresh, but this one will not end like the rest. Somewhere in the distance a car horn is sounded, the sound breaking down into a million different screams of agony, and the camera begins to shake slowly. There is no shoving this time, though, this false act lost in this purer of the recollections. Instead, a grinding noise is heard, a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard, a screeching noise deep inside the head of the smaller of the men. Jay cries out, his anguish melting into the night sky around them, the fury of his friend unleashed in full on his cognitive senses. In an instant, everything that has ever mattered is forgotten, past, like a torrent of quicksilver drained through a sieve, allowing only residue to remain. This silver drips through the eyes of the blonde-haired companion, Jay�s pupils lost beneath a mask that forms like a pair of ill-advised shades, and down his chest, wrapping around his neck like a set of silver chains, staining the wrists he brings to his head. He cannot, and will not, hold anything in though, his entire life flashing before him like the often told tale of a dying man. He feels him in there, not Saul but so like him, raking furiously at the draining silver, scooping and sweeping the broken pieces. The fighting is futile for both, and much is dead long before the smaller man reaches the edge of that fateful building and takes the infamous fall. �Haha Haha Haha.� The Jackrabbit laughs. It is all he can do as so much is extracted, all he can manage as all is brought to bare. He is the chuckling champion, he is The Unorthodox One, he is the NLW Tag Champion, he is Explicit Content, he is Fusion, he is The Jackrabbit. The past is a trickle. The past is residue in a sieve of silver. He is held. He is contained. He is trapped. The door is opened. THE JACKRABBIT: �Hello hello hello� it�s a Stevieo! Hiya Stevieo, niiiice Stevieo�� Sure enough, Stevie Sol enters the dank cell, his suit and cap attire highly relaxed, The Jackrabbit�s NLW Tag Team Championship belt in one hand. He eyeballs The Jackrabbit, sat in the very centre of the room, his knees in his arms, his tongue mindlessly playing with a strand of his own matted blonde hair. �He looks calm at least,� Stevie notes. STEVIE SOL: �Shut it, �Rabbit. Seriously, man..� THE JACKRABBIT: �I�ll shut it, Stevieo. That�s what I�m good at, don�tchya know? I�m En-El-Dub Shut-It Champion of the Wooooorld!� STEVIE SOL: �Okay, enough�� THE JACKRABBIT: �Enough enough, always enough. Will it be enough for Dracey, Stevieo?� STEVIE SOL: �What?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Stevieo, Unorthodox is better than Helliciousness, right?� STEVIE SOL: �I supp..� THE JACKRABBIT: �He won�t beat me, though, right? No one beats me though, right?� STEVIE SOL: �Oh, your match! Uprising! I should have guessed�� THE JACKRABBIT: �Uprising? Oh, I have a match at Uprising, don�t I?!� Stevie Sol frowns, a little perplexed by The Jackrabbit�s more unusual than usual behaviour. The cracks really are showing. Decidedly, he starts forwards towards the cowering man. STEVIE SOL: �We don�t have time for this�� Stevie Sol hands the NLW Tag Team Championship to its owner. STEVIE SOL: �I�m getting you out of here.� THE JACKRABBIT: �Out?� STEVIE SOL: �Out.� THE JACKRABBIT: �Out?� With a snap, the shackles on The Jackrabbit�s ankles are released, and Stevie Sol tosses them into the corner of the cell. He helps the captive to his feet, though his small arms are barely enough to support the weight of the wrestler. Eventually, The Jackrabbit is to his feet, and he shakily is led from the cell. THE JACKRABBIT: �Do I� have a match now? Is it� Friday now?� STEVIE SOL: �No, �Rabbit. This time you�re out for good.� The car park is near barren, an empty traverse of grey concrete not entirely dissimilar to the former cell of the freed wrestler. But to The Jackrabbit, this place is bliss, a freedom from the confines of the cells that had been his home for months. This change of scenery, this realisation of new independence, deep down perhaps he did not even believe it. His unlikely saviour, Stevie Sol, the suited man; the instrument of his entrapment was now the instrument of his escape. And his getaway vehicle, the chariot of his liberty; a Fiat Cinquecento. STEVIE SOL: �Eh...� He shrugs. The Jackrabbit, however, looks overjoyed. THE JACKRABBIT: �It�s super-brilliant-extra-fantasmic!� The car whizzes out of the car park, The Jackrabbit obviously in the passenger seat, and Stevie Sol behind the wheel, taking the broken wrestler, his entire body a trembling mess, from the building of his torment. The transformation has been almost instantaneous. Free of his shackles, free of the probing investigations and wild hallucinations, The Jackrabbit is once more the jovial, estatic wrestling icon that so many had learnt to love. THE JACKRABBIT: �We�ll be comin� round the mountain when we come�. Ooooooh, we�ll be comin� round the mountain when we come....� STEVIE SOL: �Is that a hint to put on the radio?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Oooh, you have the Rocky and Bullwinkle soundtrack?� STEVIE SOL: ��I guess not, then.� He laughs. So does The Jackrabbit, though he doesn�t seem to really know what he�s laughing at. THE JACKRABBIT: �Why, Stevieo? Why?� STEVIE SOL: �I guessed you�d wanna know the reason. I weren�t really on their side, �Rabbit� I was put there to monitor, to watch over the investigation, y�know? I had my suspicions� suspicions that things would get outta hand, that he�d try too hard to break you down. Hell, he went beyond the bounds of human rights back there. I knew you weren�t dangerous� that was just an excuse. Well, I�d seen enough� seen enough that I couldn�t just watch anymore. I knew I needed to get you out, y�know?� THE JACKRABBIT: �Uhm, I meant why did I have to draw someone like Dracey for this Gold Russian tournie, actually� Silly you!� STEVIE SOL: �You weren�t even curious about me letting you free?� THE JACKRABBIT: �No, I thinked you was just being nice�� STEVIE SOL: �Oh, right� Well, you got Draco �cos that�s how Gold Rush goes. He beat PIC, you beat Svoboda, so you meet in the Quarters. Simple tournie concept, �Rabbit�� THE JACKRABBIT: �Oh well� that�s make a tiny bit of sense, I sense. But still� Tal gets to go fighting peoples like Harvey Warning and Kev Tepid, and I have to fight Pizza Sfallover and now Dracey? Well, that�s okay I spose� you know why, Stevieo? I�ll tell yous. It�s okay because The Jackrabbit� that�s me!... has one real big advantage over Dracey. See, I remember Dracey from Eye-See-Dub-Ef� I remember Dracey from Gee-Dub-Oh� I remember Dracey even from all the way back in Tee-Ay-Dub. We have lots of history, Dracey and Jackrabbit. We fought for the Canadia World Title� we fought for the Gauntlet� and now we�re fighting for the Gold Russian here in En-El-Dub. But I �spose you wanna know who�s got them numbers in their advantage, Stevieo?� STEVIE SOL: �I�m gonna guess�� THE JACKRABBIT: �That�s right, me! Mon, moi, yours truthfully! The Jackrabbit 2, Dracey 1! That makes this summat of a rubber match, Dracey. Can ol� Dracey make it evens with The Jackrabbit, or will The Unorthodox One once and forever cement hisself as better than The Helliciousness One? Tune in to En-El-Dub Uprisening to find out, same �Rabbity channel, same �Rabbity time!� STEVIE SOL: �You�re pumped for this one, then, �Rabbit? Looks like I got you out of that asylum just in time, you�re gonna want time to prepare!� THE JACKRABBIT: �Definitely! There be much ice-cream to watch and Looney Tunes to eat! And don�tchya think for a second, week, hour, day or minute that I�ve forgotted how important this match is, rubbery substance or not. I knows this is Gold Russian, I knows this is a quarter of a final� or was it three-quarters? Two-thirds? Six-eleventeeths? Either way, it�s important. The winner gets to advance that one itsy bitsy step to facing Aphrowatsit and the Papery-View to become En-El-Dub Champeeeeno of the Woooorld, which is, it gotsa be said, just one step betterer than being Tag Team Champeeeeno of the Woooorld! Two gold belts would be good, Stevieo� once for each of my waists!� STEVIE SOL: �You have one�� THE JACKRABBIT: �You�re right! I have one chance to prove myself over Dracey, one chance to get my hands all over Aphydoodle once again, and one chance to beat her for the third time running. Yes, exactly!� STEVIE SOL: �You know Draco is gonna want that shot at Aphrodisia� for the same reason as Jackson will, too. They both want into her pants.� THE JACKRABBIT: �Well that�s fine, Stevieo. �Cos once The Jackrabbit takes her belt, it�ll be easier for them to get in there. Don�tchya panic, I�m ready for what The Helliciousness One will have for me. He will call me dumb, he will say I�m stupid, he will say he wants this more, he will say he�s more bad bum, more hardcore, more softcore, more inbetweencore, than The Jackrabbit. He will say he is a better wrestler, he will say he has sixty-seven billion moves, and he will say that I am not taking him seriously enough. He is wrong. I find him hilarious! I will laugh and laugh until I crack, and then I will finish laughing. Why? Why will I finish laughing, Stevieo?� STEVIE SOL: �Because you always get The Last Laugh, Jackrabbit?� THE JACKRABBIT: �No, Stevieo.. it�s because The Jackrabbit always gets The Last Laugh!� STEVIE SOL: �Ah, right.� And The Jackrabbit throws back his head, spraying sweat from his hair over Stevie Sol�s passenger seat, and lets rip a loud laugh that echoes and reverberates through the open window and out across the open road, Stevie Sol continuing the long ride to freedom. Somewhere in a corridor, somewhere behind an open steel door, somewhere inside a small, concrete cell with no windows and no mirrors, somewhere beside a set of open shackles, somewhere from within a raspy throat, a furious shout cries out. DR. RADNIK: �No! No! Noooooooooooooooooooooo!�